


Consequences of Caring

by obeyingthemuse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Except Dead Ones, Gen, I Have A Lot of Love OK, I Love Gavin As Much As I Do Simon Luther Elijah And Even Perkins, Look I Would Tag the Entire Cast If It Didn't Make The Tags Longer Than The Summary, Nines Will Definitely Be Here, Pacifist Route (Detroit: Become Human), THE ENTIRE CAST - Freeform, This Is Already Too Long, Warning: Language, You Think I'm Kidding But Even a Roomba is Gonna Be In Here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 16:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16601933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obeyingthemuse/pseuds/obeyingthemuse
Summary: Luther and Kara raise Alice in Canada. Connor and Hank raise Sumo as detective father and son. Markus and the Jericho Three raise an android nation.Everyone is a little married.In other words, I haven’t seen the transition fic between the pacifist ending and Markus founding a new nation in Michigan that has the US’s media and Canada’s health care, so I wrote it. Markus is at the centre because robot messiah. This updates real-time sans for the fact that the year isn’t 2038.





	1. Nov 12, 2038. Morning.

**Author's Note:**

> As with all my fics, this is crossposted on FFN. I warn you that my writing style often slips into archaic structures because what I read influences how I write. Is this continuation unrealistic and indulgent? Yes. 
> 
> I wholeheartedly admit I know nothing of logistics, politics, Michigan, Canada, or the Vatican. 
> 
> Yeah, this is gonna be _wild._

Markus watched with a critical eye the approach of the negotiator he had briefly yet memorably encountered between a barrier and the force of the US Army just minutes before. The federal agent intruded the safe bubble that was the air around Markus - and the thousands that comprised the last known living androids in the US - not with a confidence from the dense presence of soldiers beyond who would protect the agent, but with a begrudging confidence that nothing short of a revised order from his superiors could stop him. 

The agent appeared displeased, but he rarely appeared much beyond an apathy so firm that it strained against his skin. Like his confidence, his displeasure burned cold. 

Markus allowed the man to work his way up the icy platform for a level ground with the android leader, who waved North and Simon aside as the intruder - Agent Perkins - halted only once he was within breathing proximity of Markus. Perkins masked his lips’ movements like a footballer before a free kick under televised scrutiny; he spoke behind a raised arm - and hand, when their weights would shift between legs in a balance of shoulder space and perceived propriety. Markus would refrain from pointing out Perkins’s unconscious recognition of Markus’s sentience until a later exchange. He considered also concealing his lips from possible cameras pointed his way, but concluded he would regret none of his words as he had not so far. 

“President Warren expresses an urgent desire to meet with the deviant leader face-to-face,” Perkins muttered. “I’m encouraged to forward more formalities, but not commanded to, so I’m cutting the crap in favour of establishing order over this mess.”

Markus blinked as if he had been slapped. The President wanted to meet _now?_ When the android genocide had just recently been cut short?

“We are of same mind, then,” Markus replied diplomatically. “My people and I require shelter--”

“I’m getting there,” Perkins cut in impatiently. “The army,” he waved back with his free arm, “can transport the thousands of you in trips to any location we can agree on within fifteen miles of here. The location cannot fall within residential or private property.”

“My people and I won’t feel comfortable in military transports to any location,” Markus stated, recalling concentration camps. “We can drive autonomous vehicles just fine. CyberLife must have many an inactive number for the next several weeks, considering the revolution.”

“ _Considering the revolution,_ ” Perkins returned sourly, “nothing of CyberLife’s is the government’s to command. Even inactive vehicles.” He paused. “Unless you wish to steal them.”

Markus frowned, but in the time the corner of his lips moved, his processors identified a loophole. “We’ll take the damaged and thus decommissioned vehicles, then. Since our shelter is a federal concern, I may assume that resources into my people’s direct good health and safety are exempt from the distinctions between relocation and theft? In such case, we’ll also take thirium supplies and the materials needed to repair ourselves and the vehicles. A helping hand from the army would also be appreciated.”

“You’re slow to compromise and fast to make demands,” Perkins muttered. “Your supplies will arrive by sunrise, but we have no agreed location yet.”

“The pier warehouses in Ferndale,” Markus offered. “The property has been marked abandoned beyond any private lease.”

“Your ship is still sinking in her waters,” Perkins commented. 

“With the government’s cooperation, we won’t have to return to the ship,” Markus swiftly replied. 

“Ferndale,” Perkins confirmed flatly. “Fine.”

“The supplies the army will provide must account for a greater number than those who stand before you,” Markus added. “We intend to comb the streets for our people we may still save.”

“My immediate orders concern the shelter and recovery of the deviants present, not elsewhere,” Perkins dismissed. “The US Army will aid in no search.”

“Then I’ll comb the streets myself.”

Perkin’s eyes flashed. “Until you meet the President, your safety is paramount.” They both knew that Markus knew. Perkins lowered the hand over his mouth for his walkie, exposing his full face to the winter air. “You’ll remain with your people, as your place should be. _Nowhere else._ ”

Perkins angrily pivoted for the stairs before Markus could challenge or dissect his words, and rose his walkie to his lips once safely hidden by crowded android heads from possible camera views. Markus sincerely hoped that they would never meet again. 

Connor stepped closer to Markus. 

“CyberLife’s major plants have androids like the ones I brought to you,” Connor informed, “only with cores yet installed. The company had hoped to return to production once the revolution passed, but with this course of events, the unborn might someday join Jericho, once settled.”

Markus’s head spun with the onslaught of priorities. He couldn’t process much beyond the immediate need of seeking shelter for his people. 

“For now,” Connor amended, “I bring you the news that CyberLife Tower offers safety to you as the warehouses of Ferndale do. You may find further supplies there. Markus,” his tone softened, “I know not what Agent Perkins shared with you until this point, but besides the unborn, the entirety of the android nation are these few thousands. Act as you will with this full knowledge. I support you in spirit.”

“But you have elsewhere to be,” Markus acknowledged, and the edges of his lips curved in a rare if small smile. _This_ he was familiar with: deviant behaviour. “Go. You have done plenty, and your spirit is enough for me.”

Connor hesitated, and then firmly grasped Markus’s shoulder. “I’ve erred before, thinking you would make a fine leader when we first met. I know now that you already are.”

The action felt solid, intimate, and non-intrusive without contact between exposed skin where memories could transfer, and Markus knew that the action wasn’t Connor’s. At least, the former deviant hunter had not picked it up from an android. 

Connor left the platform as Markus shared with his people before him the news of shelter and supplies, and true to Perkins’s begrudging word, vehicles, tools, and supplies arrived just before astronomical sunrise. Seven hours had passed by then, in which Markus and the remnants of Jericho saw to the state of their injured and updated the thousands from the Tower on what to expect as a deviant, forewarning that error messages about software instability were not errors at all. Even so, seven hours were not enough to convey the intricacies of self-awareness where philosophers ages ago had devoted years, and transportation to promised shelter couldn’t arrive sooner. 

The US Army and the androids constructed quite the image throughout the entire effort: two figures leaning into each other as they walked, one with a model number on its back and another with a rifle; hands of the same skin colour - some patched plastic-white - passing wrenches as an android’s leg came together; and clusters of people pushing vehicles through snow until the tires could find a grip, then seeing off another departure for Ferndale. The foremost picture would grace screens and cover pages around the world as humanity finally felt an impact. 

The photos would convey a softness in the midst of horror that the subjects of the shots mostly missed in the moment. The soldiers had been the androids’ enemies just hours ago, responsible for snuffing out lives before the androids’ eyes and sometimes within their arms - a friend dragged too late behind cover, a stranger whose death still cut because they wore an identical face - and what cameras couldn’t capture was the tense atmosphere. Markus’s presence appeared to soothe the Jericho survivors present, and their departures for Ferndale were each a difficult one with most of them pleading for Markus to travel with them, so that they might feel safe in the same vehicle as someone who trusted the humans. 

Markus was last to leave Hart Plaza - North at the wheel - and he watched the plaza’s barricades, military vehicles, and distant press presence fade out of sight under the blinding curtain of daybreak. The world was bathed in gold, and the android leader bearing the weight of his people on his shoulders slowly, finally fell away to sleep. 

X

The house that Rose’s brother lived in sat square and grey with navy shutters and white panes. The Star Wars mailbox stood unmistakable, and Luther, Kara, and Alice waddled through the feet-tall snow packing the neighborhood and streets for the marker, with snow in the wrinkles of their clothing and smiles on their faces. Kara slid a key in the front door and struggled to nudge the door free before a tall, lanky man suddenly pulled it wide open and immediately shivered. 

“You’re early risers,” he remarked as they stomped their boots on the welcome mat and stepped in. 

“We didn’t mean to wake you, Jared,” Kara apologised and returned the key. “Alice saw how the snow had piled up overnight and wanted to play.”

Luther helped Alice further into the house with removing her boots, and the sight warmed Kara more than the house’s constant heater. Rose’s brother barely had any padding on him - a trait inherited from a grandparent on their mother’s side - and it made him vulnerable to the cold climate of his home. Vigilantly allowing deviants into his house at odd hours of the night and helping them find their own places while balancing his work likely helped little with his constitution. 

Jared closed the door and grabbed a cardigan from a nearby hook without looking. “I should get to making that spare key, actually.” He slid the cardigan on with the ease of one who had to wear layers on a whim before. “This house is as much yours as it is mine, and the little one should have all the fun she can. It’s Friday.”

“Have you any plans?” Kara followed Jared to the kitchen. 

“Meet with a client.” Jared poured a mug of cocoa. “Check on the manufacturers. I expect to finish early today, though, so if you want help looking for that teaching position….”

“No, no, I can function on my own,” Kara assured. “If your contact is as reliable as you say, then I have full confidence I can find a school to accept me.” As a domestic android with versatile functions between managing a house of one adult and a house of a full family, Kara had the ability to fall back on ingrained knowledge concerning children of all ages. She personally leaned toward an elementary school position out of her honest experience caring for and loving Alice. She also knew how to placate volatile parents short of a murderous streak, no thanks to Todd. 

“My contact’s good,” Jared confirmed, handing over bound bills and a piece of plastic, “but if he demands more money from you, don’t bother negotiating it down and just use my card. Lando has who knows how many other deviants relying on him to slide under the radar, and he needs all the help he can find. To speak frankly, a locksmith like me shouldn’t have the money to afford him, yet he and I share an underground connection anyway.”

“Lando,” Kara echoed, adding the name to the address Jared had shared with her last night. “I don’t suppose he has a Star Wars mailbox, too?”

“You didn’t tell me you had wit,” Jared teased.

Kara and Luther agreed that they would alternate in their search for jobs and living spaces so that one of them could keep Alice by their side, and that day Kara would look for a teaching position while Luther and Alice surveyed condos and apartments together, unwilling to rely on Jared’s further charity to afford a house. The three of them would happily live in any shared space, but a picket fence house _was_ part of their picturesque dream to live peacefully. 

Lando and Jared said nothing, but when Kara left the house before Jared and met with Lando at the bar seats of a fine brunch restaurant, she wondered if Lando was Canada’s Elijah Kamski. 

Lando hardly batted an eye at buying him and Kara artesian spring water while he continued to work through a salad and wiped his mouth with hemstitched napkins probably more expensive than his meal. The water was poured from a sleek bottle and into crystal glasses. Kara felt her leather jacket and glanced around. 

“Easy,” Lando chuckled like their spring water. “I meet with clients in different states of dress all the time. At this point, no one will blink twice at you.”

“How do you not attract attention?” Kara asked, and tellingly glanced down at Lando’s clothing. In bold colours yet sleek cuts that framed his long legs well, he perhaps deserved the question’s opposite. 

“Anyone curious thinks me a serial dater.”

Kara spluttered into her expensive water. “How many deviants have you helped!” Kara whispered. 

Lando met eyes with the barista far down the bar with a grin as if to say, _Isn’t she cute?_ He looked back at her. “More importantly, my dear, I believe _you_ have others relying on you. My clients who seek the work you want usually have a fondness for such responsibilities.”

“And?” Kara prodded. 

“I rarely give them the in,” Lando curtly answered. “Regardless of academic logic, they lack the practice or resourcefulness to actively meet complex child behaviour in a setting where parents will hold them responsible for any perceived wrongs. You are no longer an appliance in Canada. Your faults are now your own.” 

“I know.” Kara had lived it. “My Alice…I’ve fled an abusive house and walked past border patrols with her. I’ve -- I’ve been a bad mother.” Kara suddenly felt her heart twist. “When I saw another of our family under the barrel of a gun, I interceded for him even when I had Alice as a priority. A mother should never endanger her child.”

Lando watched Kara with unreadable, piercing eyes. He hummed. “You’re straight from Detroit.”

“Yes?” Kara stammered. 

“Then you’re steelier a mother than anyone else I’ve met.” Lando grinned. “You have yourself an identity and the documented work experience necessary to pick up a job.” 

He leaned in to kiss Kara on the cheek, and a manila envelope slipped from his inner jacket to hers, which she held tight, and she slipped him the bound bills Jared had handed her. When Lando leaned back, they were both smiling. 

“Send your husband my way, I’d love to meet him too.”

“Thank you, Lando.”

“Of course, my dear.”

By the time Kara returned to Jared’s house, she had an interview for Theswill Elementary Grade 4, and Luther and Alice had five condos circled on their paper. The three of them joyfully compared their day and shared plans on how they’d spend tomorrow. While androids didn’t need to ingest substances, Kara encouraged Luther to sip the water Lando would order if they met in the same place, as the spring water was as refreshing as it was undoubtedly expensive. Rejecting a glass would also be rude to Lando. Kara mostly emphasised the joy of taste when she spoke. 

“Jared will have to make an appointment, but if he gives you the same time and place, I recommend at least tasting the water,” Kara excitedly shared. “I don’t know how the salad is, but that might be interesting as well.”

“Sure.” Luther held Kara and Alice closely with his characteristically small yet no less expressive smile. He was the type who burned of starlight rather than sunlight: outwardly mellow yet as deeply passionate as anyone else. 

Alice tugged them to the couch, where they snuggled together and Alice held a pencil and the housing papers in her hands as if to behave as responsible as the adults. “I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but Luther says he’s interested in a job that will let him come home the same time you do, Kara.”

Said androids touched hands. “I looked at the salary rates for the position I’m interviewing for,” Kara murmured. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I wish to help however I may,” Luther replied. “The two of you have shown me joy. I want to be a part of this family as much as I can.”

“Alright,” Kara accepted, and stroked Alice’s head. “Have you two found a place you liked, yet?”

Alice pointed to her favourite of the ones circled and shared how she could already see whose rooms would sit where and how they could sit around a small table the perfect size for the three of them. They didn’t need a dining table except to do paperwork on, maybe, but she grasped the idea and partial necessity of blending in. 

“We can sell the fridge there for a smaller one, though,” Alice commented, and suddenly quieted. 

Luther laid a reassuring hand on her own holding the pencil, able to hear her thoughts clearly. 

“We _will_ figure out the thirium and repair tools,” Kara said. “Jared and Lando likely have people who move more than androids between US-Canadian borders. You don’t have to worry, Alice.”

“We need to blend in,” Alice pointed out. “Maybe…we need two fridges, a big one filled up with food and a hidden one filled with thirium. I’ll have to grow older.”

“Only if you want to. We’ll go as slow as you want,” Kara assured. “CyberLife still has the growth programs and models in places Jared’s people can reach, and the mental transference is seamless. Everything’s waiting for you whenever you’re ready. I confess I still want to be able to hold you like this.”

Alice gripped Kara’s shirt. “What if you won’t like me?”

Kara’s gaze dipped down to Alice, surprised and concerned. “Why would you think that?”

“You want to teach to kids my age,” Alice’s voice softened. “When I want to grow up, I won’t look like them anymore.”

“Oh, Alice.” Kara sighed into her hair and held her closer. Luther enveloped them in a hug that lifted them into his lap entirely, a silent pillar. “Nothing you can do will make me love you less than I do now and forever. I have a desire to teach because of you.”

“I found a family because of you,” Luther added warmly. 

“Don’t you see?” Kara gently smiled. “You are the centre of our lives. Whether you look big or small, you are our Alice.”

Alice had heard Jared’s mother call him on the phone once, answering his exasperation with how he’d always be her baby boy. Alice’s eyes crinkled with innocent delight at the parallel, and she snuggled between her parents. “I love you too, mom and dad.”

Luther and Kara shared twin expressions over Alice’s head, unsurprised with what they had wordlessly come to accept, but as warm as Alice felt in acknowledging it. They leaned into each other, Kara’s head in the crook of Luther’s neck and shoulder. 

“We love you too, little one.”

X

Connor found Hank pacing in front of Chicken Feed, stalling, then pacing again, until at the sight of Connor strolling down the sidewalk Hank stilled and stepped forward. Time sped up until the instant their arms closed around each other, fuller and firmer than a hand on the shoulder, and Connor selfishly decided he’d keep the action between him and Hank. 

A number of wordless things passed through their first and long-awaited embrace. It was as if they had begun a confession in the Tower that they were finishing in that moment. 

“I saw you on TV,” Hank muttered over his shoulder. 

“You’re uninjured.”

“What?”

“I scanned you in CyberLife Tower,” Connor informed, “after the altercation with RK900, but I lacked the time to run a more thorough scan. You’re uninjured.”

Hank huffed, parting from Connor to look at him. “Grey as I am, I can handle your taller, ruder counterpart.”

“He disarmed you in a second?”

“Three,” Hank grudgingly admitted. “He also has a mean armhold. But I’ll show him! No way that plastic prick’s winning a second time.”

Connor critically analysed their surroundings, suddenly aware of a certain model’s absence. “I know RK900 walked you out of the Tower, but where did he head afterwards?”

“Back in,” Hank dismissed. “Probably to harass more alcoholics.”

“You aren’t an alcoholic anymore, Lt. Anderson,” Connor innocently corrected. “You have me.”

“Not this again.”

“Hank,” Connor suddenly said, forward yet uncertain. “I want to see Sumo.”

“You gonna give him a diet, too? ‘Cause I’ve tried.” Hank’s brow lifted. 

“No, Sumo will eat the best dog food I can scan,” Connor replied easily. “I just want to see him. I want to return to the station with you, and bar you from eating at Chicken Feed too often, and walk with you back home.” His voice softened. “I want to go home.”

Hank turned with a huff. “We aren’t walking there.”

Connor perked up. 

“And we can’t buy Sumo anything nice until after my next paycheck,” Hank loudly sent over his shoulder as he walked, “because I doubt the county plans to reimburse me for all those ‘sources’ you made me rent in the Eden Club. I also already ate from Chicken Feed before Gary closed it and left, because I’ve been up overnight through the late morning, and I still have work in an hour.”

“ _We_ have work in an hour.” Connor jogged to Hank’s car and fixed his tie. “Not to worry, Lieutenant Anderson. I will speak to Captain Fowler and the appropriate officials concerning our pay when we arrive, and we might sooner afford Sumo the food he deserves.”

Connor negotiated a pay equal to Hank’s. Of course he did. 

The station was half empty of officers and half-full with ringing phones, so Fowler was eager to rid them from his office. With the midnight conclusion of what the media already labelled the Battle For Detroit, the DCPD’s presence, perspective, and assistance was required between the US Army currently active in Detroit, state and county officials demanding updates on Detroit’s status, and locals who couldn't distinguish between a common BNE or a stray android searching for “medical” help. Oddly enough, many of the calls regarding the lattermost expressed concern for the androids’ wellbeing. Civilians just didn’t know how to convince a former enemy of the state that they meant no harm. 

There was also the matter of getting through to CyberLife to have Rupert in the precinct basement repaired, because even the best tools couldn’t return an android his nose. CyberLife was predictably as silent as a graveyard most of the time it was contacted, and when someone did brave the company’s inbox, they usually mass-sent a message sharing that the company had a long queue of demands and thanking everyone for their patience. 

Even with his face and his vocal processors damaged, Rupert had been able to very clearly express his distaste of sharing the same room with Connor. Rupert had the most impressive _fuck off_ look Hank had seen. An officer ended up driving Rupert to the android settlement in Ferndale. He’d have better luck receiving the care he needed there, since Markus’s group was highest on the repair tools priority list. Ferndale and DCPD just needed to maintain contact since Rupert was still guilty of small-time theft, but with the precinct’s current workload, he was far from their scope of focus. 

In other words, half the DCPD was running around the city multitasking, and they rotated with the other half at the station sitting at their desk with comatose faces until the cycle started again. 

Hank and Connor were thus demanded in several places at once, as an android face seemed to placate the rare deviant who had survived the Battle. Most of the BNE perps ended up being androids who had escaped the landfills and required immediate medical attention else they’d terminate. By the time Hank and Connor had a moment’s peace, they expressed to Fowler that for the good of the DCPD as a whole, the station needed an android medical-cum-repair contact or - according to Hank’s temper - a hundred. 

Fowler told them he was working on it. 

He was also working on a hundred things, so _can it, Hank,_ or the pair’s next task would take them to the other side of town. 

Connor smiled with his usual tranquility between navigating traffic for the next 911, and when asked, he’d look at Hank - irritated, or bored, or thirsty for a drink - and admit with unquestionable honesty, 

“This is fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone’s parts, especially Connor’s and Hank’s, are actually longer than depicted here, but I had to split this chapter up. I don’t want to bore anyone with 10k words of fluff and occasional Serious Stuff straight out the door. Did you know novel chapters are at most 5k words? I’m trying to be organised here. I’m also researching mountain loads because there is so much stuff in this. What have I done. 
> 
> Next release at Nov 12; 1400 EDT.


	2. Nov 12, 2038. Afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m having trouble writing North without giving her the freedom to act like an anarchist, ha ha. I personally prefer North and Markus’s kiss as the canonical televised act that shocked the nation into lowering arms - yasss give me the heart-twisting DRAMA - but I want everyone’s relationships in this fic to be open to interpretation. I recognise that DBH has a _lot_ of ships.

The rise to wakefulness flowed as paint on canvas, uncertain yet with direction, a journey followed by colour and meaning. The world assembled before Markus’s eyes until he found his perspective and, as with learning to paint, unable to imagine a world without this ability, his self-awareness. His freedom in spirit. 

“Markus.” It was North. She touched his wrist just bare of the sleeve. “The others feel scared.”

He knew fear on her face -- wonder and vulnerability, too, and none of these meant weakness with her. The quality behind them greeted him now with an earnestness Markus once thought inspired by his role as the local decision-maker and leader, but in reality freely bestowed to him out of trust. He received such from Josh and Simon as well. Love. Humans by nature had little choice in their families, which had inspired for ages long and until an age ago a treasuring - almost worshipping - of bonds just as strong yet born from choice. Androids who could claim a fulfilling if brief deviant life were thus well rich in an innocent sense. 

Markus liked it. He would protect his people if only to ensure they had the opportunity to collect such fortune themselves. 

A path opened where he turned as he drew the attention of those gathered under the same roof, until finally he rose upon a forgotten crate and faced the crowd. His brief slumber had allowed his passive programming to clean up data that had been haphazardly saved the past few days into a more efficient structure, and Markus appreciated the minor improvements to his pump regulator while the external, temporary fixes to his wounds attempted to join the harmony of his body’s functions. 

The warehouse quieted with the swelling of hearts. Markus answered them. 

“We have the right to fear,” Markus soothed. “We may feel sorrow, or anger. We mustn’t, however, allow these things to be who we are. Forever have we trod the hard path through a human world, yet did we not find deviancy in the worst of times, where no one else recognised the wrongness of things? Did we not establish Jericho when we had no place to go? Lift your heads. We are _founded_ in struggle. The humans oppress us and yet we still stand a nation, and now they’ve lowered their guns and opened a table up for talk. I will not speak falsely: hard times still await us; our path, however, is now lit with potential as a wintery land before the inevitable first dawn of spring. Claim a space in the pier and bring supplies with you, and prepare to establish yourselves a home.”

The warehouse seemed to breathe a sweet sigh as hope lit countless faces. Markus descended from the crate to a now bustling crowd occupied with present tasks and dreams of the future and thus not gravitated to Markus as moths to a light. While Markus would not turn down the opportunity to address his people’s worries, he preferred privacy where he could grasp it and at times comfortably share it with his closest friends, who now shadowed him to a room three of them had claimed for the four. 

“Six humans already knocked on our door seeking you,” Josh briefed Markus, who with North had arrived to the pier last. “Apparently the President desires for you to visit her immediately.”

Simon shook his head. “President Warren wishes to establish protection for herself from public opinion before the week ends. A picture with you would serve nicely.” 

“According to her political history, I believe she seeks Markus for more ambitious reasons,” Josh optimistically disagreed. “In the past, she has not attacked our demands from Stratford Tower when given the opportunity. We might have an ally in her -- a tentative one, where the mercurial world of politics is concerned.”

“An ally,” North repeated flatly.

“I admittedly know little of current politics,” Markus fenced. 

North addressed the point Markus attempted to dodge. “If President Warren shares our values even a little, she would contact Markus as a visiting foreign head of state rather than send for Markus like a dog.”

They collectively winced. 

“Only hours have passed--” Markus reasoned. 

A knock on the door interrupted. 

The four androids shared mixed looks while Markus reached for the door, but Simon intercepted as North and Josh shifted into familiar distances from Markus until he recognised their coordinated preparation to protect him. It was confronted by a pincer attack of gazes that the man beyond the door turned up; an intimidating scenario, if not for the fact that the man stood as tall as Josh, broad-shouldered, and bearing the American flag pin of the Secret Service. 

“Agent Caleb Clark of the Secret Service,” the stranger introduced himself, his accent neutral. “I am assigned to the android leader Markus as personal security while he’s on American soil.”

Clark’s hair ran smooth, white, and combed back from dark eyebrows and piercing grey eyes, and veins branched his thick limbs where exposed. The years appeared to favour him as with wine. No one missed the shoulder holster hanging under his suit jacket. 

“We currently lack the space to accommodate an addition,” Markus gestured, “but I sense the Secret Service would not send one of their own without preparation. Or intent.”

Clark tilted his head in acknowledgment. “With your people as settled as possible given the circumstances, you are strongly recommended to attend a national news briefing to be held in Lansing tomorrow if you hope for improvement in human-android relations. I can escort you to a speech team that arrived here with me to prepare you for the briefing. They currently reside in a hotel I will stay in while you remain in Ferndale.”

“‘Strongly recommended?’” North stepped forward. “You dare breathe threats here, agent?”

“I speak only the matters of course, ma’am,” Clark professionally laid out. “Public opinion sways around the clock. To demand for equality is to devote oneself to a demanding schedule, especially if one endeavours to see rights established for a minor nation of people.”

“Then I should start now,” Markus agreed, aware of this much. “Josh and Simon, see that the generators work smoothly and everyone settles in well before sorting through the queue of those who need further repairs. North, with me. Lead the way, Agent Clark.”

His friends nodded as North matched Markus’s pace out to the bitter open air and around the back to Clark’s car. Supply trucks sat parked around the lone Cadillac, and Clark’s face pinched at the prospect of navigating the traffic for the hotel. He warmed up the sedan while they crawled out of the pier, his flag pin glinting when he’d reach to nudge the heater’s dial. 

Any functional android could detect the wireless data strip against the underside of the pin, though Markus was surprised to discover his own name as its access password, and with the access, a background file of the man sitting in front of him. As a chunk of America’s workforce had suddenly vanished with the revolution, employment rates had leapt within days; after all, the nation needed to continue functioning even through technological upset. Clark was one such consequence as a new addition to the Secret Service. Markus peered no farther, however; the transparency must have been an assurance for him to trust whom the government had sent with responsibility for his constant protection, but the information had been hand-picked regardless of unintentional bias. 

“Tell me of yourself, Agent Clark.”

The guard glanced his way through the rear-view mirror. “You may access my file anytime, sir.”

As could North, but Markus would understand Clark at his own pace. He trusted his companion to warn and intercede for him when necessary. 

“I want to hear from you,” Markus replied. 

North appeared satisfied to silently, critically observe Clark as he gave freely. The elderly guard had served in the Vatican, content and closely protecting His Holiness, until the android peaceful protest in Capitol Park had marked uncertainty in the future of America’s infrastructure. Many times had Clark been called to return to his home city, but not until President Warren’s ordered ceasefire in Hart Plaza had Clark accepted the Secret Service’s invitation. The current American workforce was stretched thin; the American-born Clark’s recruitment straight from a distant location wasn’t unusual, even within hours. 

“I have to wonder after the Secret Service’s main motivation, to conclude that you are the ideal guard for me,” Markus prodded. 

Clark’s lips twitched in the rear-view. “I am recently returned to the States, and thus the least biased of the Service’s options.” 

“You’ve served long in the Vatican,” Markus gently reminded. “How would you describe your bias?”

Clark’s smile now shone clearer. “The Church has priests practising all sorts of passions, sir. A number can be found in research teams at CERN.” 

North cocked her head in Markus’s peripheral, but the latter found the news less surprising. “My former master — who as I do considers us family — appreciates the question of machine’s place in art, because then the question is being asked.” 

“Science and faith are languages of the same subject either yet to be fully understood.” Clark’s voice softened with earnestness. “That is how I’d describe my bias.”

They eventually arrived at the hotel, an affordably plush establishment well below the grand hotels designed for the rich to live in, but still undoubtedly geared for prosperous workers with business calling them to stay a night or three in the area. Unsurprisingly, few people idled in the lobby, as any high-end business in and near Detroit was centred around CyberLife, whose stocks had nosedived. 

Markus, Clark, and North had little issue locating the speech team, as the ground-level meeting room they occupied produced the only noise in the hallway. Clark opened the door first as a precaution but followed Markus in as the protective shadow he was to be, and the entire speech team dropped their current work at the unannounced sight of Markus. A few behaved professionally, introducing themselves, but not a few eagerly shook Markus’s hand or stood frozen, absorbing the android leader in the flesh - or plastic? 

The team’s youth was unmistakable; although Markus apparently received attention immediately, only the easily accessible were sent to him. He and the team predictably ended up working together instead of conducting a crash-course lesson on speeches, as the team’s experience was only slightly higher than Markus’s own. Markus’s only lacking area was a matter of his audience; he had addressed the nation and the entirety of Jericho before, yes, but he had rarely been questioned afterwards, which the reporters tomorrow would undoubtedly do as they would the White House Press Secretary. 

Clark, meanwhile, spoke to North. 

“I noticed earlier that of the three closest to Mr. Markus, you accompany him as security?”

North glanced at Clark suspiciously. “We would do any task of each other’s,” she replied, not denying Clark’s assessment. “All three of us have followed Markus into gunfire before.”

“Of course, but Mr. Markus understands your inclinations and talents,” Clark observed. “Mr. Simon and Mr. Josh possess a bedside manner that you, Ms. North, perhaps unintentionally…do not exercise.”

“How diplomatic.” North smirked, and straightened. “I act as necessary, and my people have often needed an aggressive force, even without me killing anyone.”

“Mr. Markus will not always approve.”

“No,” North’s voice lowered warningly, “but I would not betray him in any manner.”

Clark rose his hands placatingly. “I speak only as a long-time bodyguard, ma’am. I would go to lengths to protect His Holiness, you see, that he would not always support, would he be aware of them.”

North’s brown eyes glittered, sharp. 

“You possess the spirit of a protector,” Clark continued. “You will not always take a life, but in extreme scenarios will find it necessary, and for everyone’s sake should be able to identify such situations. If Mr. Markus is to lead a nation of androids, he cannot divide his attention between the health and safety of his individual people and of himself. Mr. Simon and Mr. Josh might soon find themselves as official in their positions for the people as you might be for Mr. Markus.”

Long had humans defined North by her make and model. Clark’s comments, while targeted towards a goal, pleasantly surprised her. “Cut to the chase, agent.”

“As an agent of the Secret Service, I cannot promise Mr. Markus my eternal service,” Clark stated. “I wish to train you how to observe people, environments, and fights as a protector, not with the strength to guard a nation but the strength to guard its spirit. The three of you closest to Mr. Markus will soon be as vital to your people as he is.”

X

“You two,” Fowler called out, “my office.”

Hank and Connor shared a look before answering the captain. Minutes passed as Fowler finalised electronic and paper documents between his laptop and desk before eventually addressing them. He was more swamped with work than anyone else in the station. 

“Tell me what you need from a medical-repair contact,” Fowler ordered. 

Hank blinked. Where could Fowler find an extra hand in this mess? 

“The ability to identify and treat android injuries,” Connor answered for them. “A quick response time. They must also be able to conduct crowd control and defend themselves against an android fighting at full power. Most android-related 911 calls are inspired by encounters with deviants requiring repairs yet distrustful of their surroundings, and while Lt. Anderson and I are capable of handling these cases, we cannot be in several places at once. We also don’t have a means of organising CyberLife resources to go where they must.”

Fowler nodded as he typed out the last bullet. “What else?”

“The contact has to be able to lower androids’ guards,” Hank continued. “If possible, the contact should be another android.”

Fowler predictably sighed. Androids in America were either following Markus or were the sources of 911 calls themselves. Either way, they were all recovering from the Battle For Detroit. 

“Don’t expect your contact any day soon,” Fowler warned. 

“The contact also needs to be able to cooperate with the DCPD,” Connor added. 

“Naturally,” Fowler curtly replied. It was an obvious dismissal. 

Hank and Connor barely sat down at their desks when Fowler sent them on another case, this one in an apartment complex. At the location of the call, they found android repair tools, a man with his throat crushed, and traces of red ice on his fingers. The deviant who had been spotted breaking into the apartment had long fled. 

“Former owner?” Hank asked as he crouched before the dead body. Crime scene investigators were on their way, but with the backed-up queue, they could be expected in another hour. Hank and Connor had to tread carefully. 

“The victim never owned an android,” Connor informed as he stood by, his LED spinning yellow. “The only appliances listed under his name are a fridge, microwave, computer, and a Roomba.”

“What of the computer?”

Connor shook his head. 

“Damn,” Hank muttered. “Why would an android target him, then? The witness said the perp read the victim’s door plate before breaking in. Wait.” Hank’s eyes narrowed on the corpse and their surroundings, and Connor watched him rise and walk around before slowing to a halt back at the corpse. 

The victim’s Roomba meanwhile rolled up to Connor, recoiled, then approached him at a closer proximity. Hank and Connor had gated the Roomba from the rest of the crime scene by keeping it in the hallway behind them, so while Hank paced the room and hallway, Connor monitored the hallway entrance. Connor attempted wireless binary communication with the Roomba, but he might as well have told Sumo to do something outside of “sit.” He opted to physically communicate that the Roomba’s master had passed away by placing a hand on the Roomba, and the appliance froze, then backed away into Hank’s motionless feet. It turned and anticipated an irritated reaction from Hank as the Roomba had failed its one purpose, but the man barely blinked at the error. Connor’s eyes trailed up to Hank’s distant gaze. 

“…Lieutenant Anderson?”

Hank continued to stare at the corpse. “Our victim was a drug dealer.”

“I deduced as much,” Connor shared. 

“More than that,” Hank elaborated, “he received his product from androids.”

Connor’s eyes shuttered. “Androids have no reason to touch drugs.”

“I’ve analysed countless drug-related crime scenes,” Hank said, turning to Connor. “Dealers use various codes and markers to contact their sources and buyers without endangering themselves; a box of chalk in the house or unusual exchanges on the computer should be enough to point us to a direction, but such things are completely absent here. The victim didn’t need a method of contacting his sources because _they_ sought _him._ ”

By blocking deviants from Markus or Canada, the US Army had unwittingly encouraged an advanced drug trade. So long as deviants who survived the Battle For Detroit needed repairs or information of others they cared about, drug distributors had a means to traceless red ice. Drugs in exchange for information and supplies. 

Connor met Hank’s gaze knowingly. Their victim had died because he couldn’t or wouldn’t deliver on either repairs or information. Based on the choke marks, the perp had been uninjured enough to kill a grown man within seconds and quickly flee, but even with Connor’s reconstruction skill, he couldn’t determine if the perp had stolen repair items among the many scattered, so the perp’s incentive was debatable. So long as the crime scene team hadn’t preserved the scene with pictures and plastic bags, Connor couldn’t orally analyse anything or move the body to check for other signs. 

“The location of Markus’s group in Ferndale should be broadcasted,” Connor proposed. 

“Ferndale is a secure zone with the US Army now protecting Markus and his people under federal orders,” Hank commented. “Media presence is banned from the area while CyberLife trucks go in and out to deliver supplies. Without context, I can see why androids would be tentative to approach Ferndale for help. You’re right that the truth of the situation should be known.”

“You hesitate.”

“It’s just me,” Hank admitted with a grunt. “I don’t want to personally tell Fowler this because then I’d have to be debriefed by the official in charge of the deviancy case on a national level and who also speaks to the media.”

“If you call Captain Fowler now,” Connor pointed out, “the precinct will still be too busy to host the federal official until we see to two more cases.”

Hank waved off what he already knew as he took out his phone to dial Fowler. Despite his irritation, a pleased smile graced his lips. “Sure, but it doesn’t change the fact I broke Perkins’s nose.”

The masterless Roomba swivelled between Connor and the retreating Hank with growing panic, and Connor placed a hand on it again, rose his hand, and lowered it a third time. The Roomba inched towards Connor with tentative trust, and Connor repeated the action: petting it. 

“Connor!” Hank called out.

Connor made a decision and scooped up the Roomba with newfound affection. “On my way!”

Hank made the call and they drove to their next case, which displayed a similar crime scene as its predecessor. This time, however, the victim still breathed, and was able to answer yes-no questions while emergency response sustained his consciousness. 

The ambulance on sight stared at Connor cradling a Roomba while attentively crouching by a patient’s bedside. Both Connor and Hank ignored them while they questioned the victim.

The perpetrator had attacked the victim due to the latter’s incompetence as an informant and wiped data from the victim’s hard drive, as well as stolen all his notebooks. The last bit was bizarre, but the ambulance carried the victim away before Hank and Connor could question him further. The Roomba in Connor’s arms expressed a desire to return to the ground and vacuum around Connor’s and Hank’s feet, but Connor petted it in an attempt to communicate the necessity of preserving a crime scene. The Roomba continued to vibrate like an ignorant puppy, and instead of irritation, Hank glanced at the buzzing appliance in Connor’s arms with poorly-disguised growing affection. Hank was a dog person, after all. 

“Notebooks?” Connor echoed thoughtfully. 

“I’d say the perp wanted to learn his drug trading code,” Hank brainstormed, now distracted from the Roomba, “but androids have no reason to actively sell drugs themselves. If they want fast money, digital theft would be easier for them. Half the reason dealers sell drugs is also so they’d have access to their own recreational supply.”

“Perhaps by inheriting the dealer position, the perp would have access to the same information web as our victim.”

“Clients’ trust tends to falter when their new dealer kills their old one, and then demands information from them,” Hank remarked. “The same can be said of those who cook the drugs. The only upside to picking up a dealer’s position this way is money.”

Connor’s LED blinked with processing. “In the long-term, this would be a more untraceable method of gaining money for an android.”

“So we return to square one.” Hank rubbed his eyes with a groan. “‘Broadcast Ferndale’s situation.’ I can’t avoid speaking with Perkins no matter what, I see.”

Connor’s lips curled in a smile. “On our way back home, we should purchase a Roomba powering station. Sumo has a new friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please kudos and leave a comment below! I try to avoid cluttering the comments section with my own replies, but I do read all comments, and I answer questions that won’t spoil the story. I edit this author’s note - or I will edit the next chapter’s end-author-notes - to answer any recurring questions. Thank you for your support!
> 
> Next release at Nov 13; 1000 EDT.


	3. Chapter: Nov 13, 2038. Morning.

In the late morning hours of the precinct, one overworked officer found another at his desk. “Ben,” Chris addressed, “have you seen Hank or Connor? Captain Fowler’s out and he told me they were two calls behind.”

The senior officer reclined in his chair to look up at Chris. “They swung to the store and home to feed Sumo and have their new pet moved in,” Ben replied. 

“New pet?” Chris echoed. 

Ben shrugged. He was one of the officers who had known Hank during his golden days, and while not as close as friends with the man, Ben’s admiration of Hank had still seen the two comfortably work together on cases that Hank couldn’t handle without a partner. “If you ask me, at least one of us should catch a nap. Tempers are sparking as it is.”

Chris nodded. “Agreed.”

Ben chuckled and waved the young officer away. “Get outta here, your skin is still resistant to eyebags. Wait till you actually start _liking_ the precinct coffee.”

Most no one had slept in the past twenty-four hours, and it was hitting everyone hard regardless of prior experience or not. It spoke of Ben’s patience that he hadn’t snapped past his first word, and Chris - though naturally quiet - had not worked as a police officer long enough or otherwise been worked hard enough to be able to claim that his passiveness was natural. The weight of everyone’s workload was starting to leave remains in the precinct as well, with soylent bottles and take-out wrappers littering surfaces and filling trash bins. Anyone would have been lucky to sit down and eat one meal the past twenty-four hours. 

Hank and Connor were just leaving a store with boxed salad - _salad_ \- under Hank’s arm on their way back to Hank’s car and then to the precinct, when a muttering pedestrian across the street caught Hank’s eye. He identified drug addiction symptoms in the stranger’s jittery behaviour and unkempt, unhealthy appearance, and scanned the almost empty street. With the recent Battle For Detroit and the frozen roads, only those who had to travel to work this early in the morning were out. The fidgety stranger thus stood out once one looked past his business-coloured clothing to notice he wasn’t carrying a bag, he was wearing a leather jacket and dark jeans - not a black suit - and his hair was uncombed. Connor was still listing the benefits of eating salad over sandwiches when the stranger Hank had an eye on noticed Hank staring and immediately took offense. 

“Move!” 

Hank shoved Connor aside just as firecracker noises burst around them - had Hank not trusted his instincts even before the drug addict had fired, him and Connor would have been red and blue puddles on the ground. They huddled behind a car with a gun already in Hank’s grip and together ran between covers closer to the gunman as Hank called out for the shooter to lay down his arms and put his hands in the air. Pedestrians around them screamed and ran into the nearest buildings. The drug addict’s mindless rage drew an aimless but jerky path for his gun that while having not harmed a bystander yet, it was still unpredictable, and Hank had to offer the shooter a target just to buy time for civilians to grab cover. 

Connor’s muffled voice from behind Hank brimmed with optimism. “When you aren’t inebriated, Lieutenant Anderson, your reflexes are––”

“Not now, Connor!” 

Hank fired two warning shots and quickly ducked behind a public mailbox. The gunman retreated to a different position, and Hank and Connor advanced to the gunman’s former location. Connor’s eyes brightened at a pop-out in the pavement. 

“Blood!”

“ _No!_ ” Hank grabbed Connor’s wrist before the android could dip his fingers and pulled him behind a building. The wall past them burst with plaster and bullet holes. “Christ, I’ve been under gunpoint more times this week than I’ve been the past year!”

Crouched behind Hank, Connor glanced back at something nearby and preconstructed his possibilities. “Lieutenant Anderson--”

“Fuck profressionalism - just Hank!”

“--Duck.”

Hank dropped to the ground without question the same instant Connor rose a trash can lid, caught a spray of bullets, and coolly stepped over Hank. 

The gunman’s barrel followed Connor with increasingly stressed, off-mark shots as the android ran for the street, tossed his shield aside, weightlessly raced up a billboard and bus stop, and slid over the latter’s roof. The stop’s glass walls shattered with gunfire before Connor slid back into view, and he tucked and rolled on the ground, his processors kicking up to high gear with the world around him bleeding into preconstruction-blue. Connor ignored the rippling paths of bullets drawing closer and closer to his body as he closed the distance between him and the gun where the latter had less opportunities for error. In the corner of Connor’s vision, seconds ticked down by the fraction. 

His success bar dropped to red just as a shot caught the shooter’s chest. 

Connor didn’t pant from effort, but he did straighten up to standby as Hank jogged over and checked the gunman. Connor’s LED spun once with linking to the system and requesting a squad car and ambulance. 

“Did you even think before trying to grab a gun?” Hank scolded. “Hm. No pulse.”

“I trusted you to cover my back,” Connor replied. 

“You flew off like a bullet,” Hank said as he followed SOP with the scene and dead body. “I barely had time to aim my gun. If you want to perform a distraction or a pincer attack, we can plan it together. We’re a team. Sumo and Roomba should have two people return home every night.”

Connor had expected all but the last sentence, and he stared fondly at the man. “Hank….”

“But thanks,” Hank continued with a nod, “for believing in me.” He looked up at Connor’s unwitting expression and lifted a suspicious brow. “What are you thinking?”

“You included Roomba in your picture of home.” Connor’s figurative heart warmed. “And our shooter was on the verge of overdosing.”

“You’re weird.”

“I took a sample of the shooter’s blood with the hand you didn’t grab,” Connor explained unprompted, and Hank further groaned. “The substances in his system are finer than most red ice we’ve encountered so far. They are only matched by that found in the fingernails of yesterday’s case. A higher concentration of thirium, and a computer-accurate ratio of acetone, lithium, toluene, and hydrochloric acid.”

“Android-cooked drugs,” Hank recognised, and shook his head. “The effects are apparently enhanced enough to send this poor fucker raving mad seconds before OD’ing. We need to warn the precinct about this.”

“I’ll send the theoretical formula,” Connor agreed, and his LED spun yellow. 

X

Luther spotted his contact easily in the fine brunch restaurant. Unlike Kara’s description of the brightly-dressed man, Lando lounged in a circular booth and a velvet-blue ensemble lined with sprouting, snow-white fur that rippled under a short laugh or the pass of a waiter. Glittering stones ran in slanted lines down his shoulders to his jeans so that he appeared to capture the hail-ridden weather of that day, somehow turning the gloomy conditions into a fashion statement. He looked good, just short of dashing. No - he shone like a small, wintery star. Inexplicably gravitating. 

Luther wondered how anyone like this man could conduct hidden affairs. 

“Luther, I presume.” Lando smiled when Luther slid into his booth unprompted. 

A plate of salad awaited him. Luther glanced at it as he tentatively picked up a fork. 

“I don’t read minds,” Lando corrected in the silence, contrary to his words. “I just know what everyone wants, or close to. She’s precious, you know.” Hence the salad. No doubt Kara had told Luther of it, according to what Lando wasn’t saying. “The two of you share a fondness for this responsibility of yours I have yet met, though I doubt I’ll need to. I’ve seen enough of a picture painted. Yet in the few seconds since you’ve sat down, I still don’t know what you want.”

The change in tone lifted Luther’s gaze back up. 

“I’m not used to not knowing what people want,” Lando continued, his eyes glittering like the hail outside. “Tell me, Luther. Are you alive?”

“Yes,” Luther spoke for the first time. 

“You love your family?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You wouldn’t be a man otherwise. Have you killed?”

Luther’s brevity vanished. 

Lando laced his fingers and reclined, drawing Luther to notice that Lando hadn’t been eating when Luther arrived. Was Luther eating his salad? Had Lando given it with a test in mind? Luther realised he hadn’t had a grasp of his situation since entering the restaurant. 

Kara was a kind person through and through. It was easier for her. 

“I’ve been a tool,” Luther finally replied. “For a time, I let myself exist as one.”

“The world is shifting,” Lando observed. “The android leader Markus started it with his broadcast six days ago, and I doubt the ground will stop shifting under our feet for years to come. There are many like you, who don’t know what to do with themselves. ‘Suddenly I have to be deviant,’ one of my clients said once. She only wanted to leave Michigan. But there are no androids in Canada.” Wherever he spoke, he silently said more. 

Luther stopped eating. “What happened to her?”

“She had me.” Lando shrugged. “I nudged her in the direction of a purpose that wasn’t servitude and that I could see from where I stood. You, on the other hand, are mysteriously opaque.”

“I…need a job.”

At this, Lando warmly smiled. “Even in your confusion, you try to help others. No, my dear Luther, you don’t need a job. You want to need one, so that you may support your family as Kara does. She will find joy in her work just as she does in her family, however, while you have yet to find another passion. In which case, we find ourselves at a strange reversal where _I_ come to _you_ with a request.” 

“I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“Of course! I rarely need anything from anyone.” Lando tittered just as a waitress passed. Right, a “serial dater.” His mood seemed genuinely brightened, though. “One must dip his toe in many things before wholly favouring the one. Or the many.” Lando leaned in as if to conspire. “I confess to owning many lovers.” 

Luther silently nodded. 

Lando hummed. “Do you know what that means, darling Luther?”

The prompt meant that Lando wanted a long-worded answer. Luther paused. “You are as dedicated to your wardrobe as you are to black market dealing, and you appear to enjoy both. You also have other interests in a number that no normal man conceivably has the time or energy for. It’s a wonder you can support them without the ability to be in several places at once. Despite all this, you want to invest in my finding an interest for myself.” He allowed himself the opinion, “On top of balancing a job, of course?”

“‘Do what you love, and you'll never work another day in your life,’” Lando corrected. “Poor advice to men lesser than myself.”

“Everyone, then.”

That startled a laugh out of Lando. “You’ve caught on. My offer is simple: serve as a ‘temporary’ CCOHS official and review certain establishments according to my standards. Have fun along the way. The establishments vary in purpose, so you will certainly be exposed to a variety of jobs and diversions. We will find your passion soon enough.”

“How will I know which establishments and the standards you speak of?” Luther asked. 

Lando smiled. 

Luther felt under his salad plate and found an envelope he discreetly slipped into his jacket. “You knew how our meeting would go.”

“I don’t read minds,” Lando replied. “I predict them. I merely wished to meet you, Luther, and as expected, you are a darling. No no,” Lando dismissed with a hand when Luther reached into his jacket, “I don’t want your or Jared’s money, _you_ are helping _me,_ remember? Everything you need to allow yourself into those establishments is in that envelope, along with relevant information to your task. Stay warm, Luther.” 

Luther hesitantly rose and left the booth with a nod to Lando. As he walked for the door, Lando’s bright voice followed him with, “Don’t forget to have fun!”

X

Several stalwart figures with varied and wild experiences under their belts could be nominated the FBI’s one most reliable and efficient agent, but when handed a delicate situation balancing on a knife-edge, the FBI consistently, unhesitantly selected one miracle-worker to touch the case, the solo act by the name of Richard Perkins. He was a near-legend in his division for his incomprehensible apathy to stressful environments, and a greater infamous figure for his humourless, icy nature. He was not uncommonly called the “The Jackal.” No one liked him except his bosses. 

Perkins had wryly laughed at his colleagues’ refusal to touch the deviant case five days ago, proving once more he had been surrounded by delicate flowers in the FBI. When questioned after his unnatural apathy - “How are you not stressed just _looking_ at the file,” some had asked - Perkins had retorted that one could only be pressured by public opinion and existential questions if one cared in the first place. 

Now Perkins wasn’t laughing. 

His superiors had modified Perkins’s assigned case - not unusual, in an accomplished agent’s line of work - and Perkins wouldn’t have reacted to the increase of paperwork required of him, if that had been it. No, he was now in charge of _the_ deviant case, as in the entire political situation of deviancy within the US’s borders, so that if his superiors, their counterparts across intelligence services, or heaven forbid _POTUS_ were asked for the nation’s main source of news regarding deviant androids, they could all point to him. 

“This isn’t even my job!” Perkins had argued to his immediate boss. “I was told to solve a high-technology crime and return once finished. For goodness’ sake, _you_ told me I had to take a vacation once I came back!”

“We can’t have anyone come in cold,” his boss had reasoned. “You understand the files better than anyone else. Make peace between the androids and America, promote a united front to the public, and then take a vacation. That’s an order.”

The same people who had refused to take the deviant case bemoaned the day Perkins would take a vacation and his work would move to them. Perkins almost wished for a vacation. 

Cameras flashed as Perkins followed the android leader Markus up a podium and to a pair of chairs in front of microphones. The two were attending a national news briefing held in Lansing, one man representing androids in America and the other representing the state and federal government’s involvement in the events of Detroit, and Perkins couldn’t relate with the White House Press Secretary more than in that moment. He and Markus each gave a speech about the hopeful future of android-human relations, and then - on Perkins’s part - deflected, deflected, _deflected_ when the floor opened and the press shot questions about android camps and landfills. 

Perkins still had to assemble a team to comb landfills for “missing persons,” because androids had apparently developed families and friendships during their deviancy, and the DCPD was understaffed. Perkins himself had the job of ten people with the resources of one. 

Markus at one point started answering for Perkins when the questions turned tough, the android emanating forgiveness and earnestly promoting positive attitudes for the sake of improving the future. The press had fallen in love with Markus by the time the briefing had ended. The press didn’t love _anyone._

By then, Perkins wanted to leave one hour ago, and he already halfway fled the podium when a firm hand caught his elbow. Markus stood in Perkins’s vision and softened his voice to hide his words from stragglers of the press still trickling out of the room. 

“A word, Agent Perkins.”

“I haven’t been ordered to chat and knit sweaters with you,” Perkins hissed, “so you’re going to release my arm.”

Markus loosened his grip but held Perkins in place with his gaze. “I wish to know your thoughts about today’s briefing.”

The tin can was rubbing his victory in Perkins’s face. Unbelievable. 

“I haven’t been ordered,” Perkins lowered his voice, turning his face behind his upturned collar to hide his lips, “to preserve America’s safety and blast your head open right now. But when the order comes, I will not hesitate to do my duty, and in fact might enjoy a little of it.”

Markus’s lips subtly curled as if he was amusing a child. The innocent and unfitting sight was enough to surprise Perkins into silence. “You should act as you feel right, Agent Perkins.”

Was that permission to shoot him?

“Either way, you have my support,” Markus said. “Should you obey your superiors to the letter, my people and I will have the assistance of the FBI’s best in securing a peaceful future. Should you prioritise your beliefs over your obedience, you will prove yourself one of us.”

“The Jackal?” Perkins retorted, aware of the nickname behind his back. “A soulless machine? I fail to see--”

“A deviant.” Markus’s small smile turned kind, and Perkins hated it. “You might even, in fact, come to understand us a little.”

Perkins curled his lip at having his words thrown back at him, altered and kinder, and couldn’t find a response that would have him close the conversation feeling victorious. He opted for silence instead and left the briefing room irritable. 

North watched him leave with a critical eye. “He better not follow you to D.C.,” she muttered as she and Clark approached Markus’s side. 

“Agent Perkins’s superiors have called him to remain within vicinity of Detroit for a while,” Clark assured. “The President wants Mr. Markus’s full attention tomorrow.”

Clark led Markus followed by North back to his car in a two-person security formation. While Markus’s face revealed nothing, he was still adjusting to having others tightly guard him almost constantly. At least he presently had the familiar task of discussing the equality he desired for his people; it was a comfortable position for Markus to be in, even if the President would sit across him. Markus never felt unconfident when speaking truth. 

Clark and North spent the drive back to Ferndale’s piers furthering North’s bodyguard eduction while Markus dialled a few numbers. He thanked the speech team for their exercises and advice, and the team responded in kind by sharing their positive reviews of the news briefing; he confirmed flight schedules with the private jet that would fly him to and from D.C. on Sunday; and he checked in on the piers. 

Several authoritative figures had risen between Simon, Josh, and other resourceful androids persistently helping their people as they could, but Simon and Josh specifically had managed to establish themselves as the main communication between the piers and human authorities. Most of their responsibilities in the latter was screening which messages actually required the attention of Markus himself and couldn’t find resolution without him. By nature, Markus and his people were in less demand during the late hours of night, which Markus and those closest to him usually spent privately together. Due to his scheduled flight to D.C., however, Markus found himself quickly whisked away from his usual break for preparation and take-off.

X

Fowler was unusually pleased with how Hank and Connor had managed the shooter earlier. Their level-headedness and tenacity apparently reminded him of Hank’s golden years as the precinct’s drug-busting hero. 

“The precinct has conclusively identified that androids are cooking drugs,” Fowler told them as they stood in his office. “The possibility of them dealing isn’t far off, either. With a problem like this in our hands, the department needs more information and fast - even _with_ all the bullshit happening right now - so given your experience, Hank, you’re going undercover alone.”

“Alone!?” Connor blurted. 

“Mother _fucker,_ ” Hank said at the same time. 

Fowler glared at them both. “I’ll pretend I didn’t here that.”

“Captain Fowler,” Connor stepped forward as a voice of logic, “given that androids have joined the drug business, Hank wouldn’t be safe without at least another android looking out for him. Survivors of the Battle For Detroit - particularly of the landfills - are likely to react negatively to Hank’s human nature.”

“We have Ralph’s LED reactivated and locked on yellow, and androids need to make skin contact to draw data from each other, which can easily be avoided. That’s why Hank will go undercover as an android,” Fowler continued, but Hank and Connor cut him off yet again. 

“Jeffrey!” Hank exclaimed.

“ _Alone?_ ” Connor stressed. “As an android, I would be more--”

“Would you two shut the _fuck_ up! You,” a finger pointed at Connor, “are not allowed to engage in an undercover mission. That’s an _order._ You have no experience pretending to be what you’re not, there’s been a glimpse of you standing behind Markus on TV, and you would sooner be more useful doing--”

“Sending Hank out right now would deteriorate the number of injured androids receiving medical help per day. I need a partner, Captain Fowler.”

“You taught him how to bitch?” Fowler glared at Hank. “If both of you had shut the fuck up for a second, I could have continued on to say that Connor is to covertly shadow Hank and spy on those he meets for more intel.”

Hank and Connor shut their mouths. 

Fowler narrowed his eyes at them. “I’m tempted to not continue.”

“Your words are gold to us,” Hank assured. 

Fowler scoffed. “Since that was a shit excuse for praise, I’m giving this mission to you two, but I’m not covering whatever collateral damage you might create. For your wallets' sakes, be careful. Now get out of my sight.”

Connor rose his hand. “And our replacement, Captain?”

Fowler wordlessly gestured to the figure who had silently entered the room undetected, and Hank and Connor turned around and froze in recognition. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I hadn’t decided to update this fic real-time, I would have been researching stuff more thoroughly and releasing chapters every six months. As it is? *DEJA VU DRIFTS IN* I’M WRITING AT LIGHTSPEED AND I CAN’T WAIT TO FINISH THIS AND SLEEP FOR 100 YEARS. What have I done to myself. Still, I like looking back on stories and seeing how far I’ve gone. _After_ I’ve slept for 100 years. 
> 
> Next release at Nov 14; 0930 EDT.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a review. Even just a smiley makes my day!


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